


Like Scattered Leaves ~ by Ellen

by AngelBookofDaysModerator



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angel Book of Days Challenge, Flashback, Gen, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-03
Updated: 2003-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelBookofDaysModerator/pseuds/AngelBookofDaysModerator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written by Ellen. Posted on behalf of the author by the Angel Book of Days Moderator.</p><p>Timeline ~ Post-Season 4, with flashback to Season 1</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Scattered Leaves ~ by Ellen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nakedwesley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakedwesley/gifts).



He hadn't expected to enjoy the new job as head of Research Intelligence at Wolfram & Hart quite so much. All of a sudden, he had access to resources that the old Watchers' Council could only have dreamed about. It was more than opening up new worlds to him; it was more a question of entirely new dimensions.

The only thing lacking was someone to share the joy of discovery. Fred was preoccupied with her shiny new lab, and spending far too much time with Knox, and she couldn't fully appreciate anything outside her little sphere.

He tried not to admit how much he missed Lilah. She would have understood.

He hadn't seen her for awhile, after his futile attempt to destroy her contract, but he did hear from her. Every few mornings there would be a brief note or a file on his desk. It was seldom anything which could be described as personal, much less intimate.

He could still remember all the physical details about her, about everything that they had done together, but when he tried to recall their conversations, he could sense gaps in his recollection. There were times when he could recall the tone of her voice, and the expression on her face, and yet the words that she had spoken, and his own responses, were lost to him.

When he became old - if he should be lucky enough to survive that long - such lapses would be expected. He could imagine himself, in his autumnal years, nodding in a chair on some distant porch, lingering on the sweet recollection of every fragrance of Lilah's body, and yet completely unable to recall her name. In the present situation, since Wesley generally had an excellent memory, it could only indicate that someone had been tampering with it.

It was not much of a leap to conclude that this selective amnesia must have some connection to whatever function it was that Wolfram & Hart expected from him. Manipulating the mind was one of their many areas of mastery, and there had to be some specific reason why he was permitted to remember Lilah's face, her voice, her touch, so clearly that it made him ache sometimes, and yet could not retrieve more than a vague impression of much that they had said to each other.

Having little choice in the matter, he resolved to be patient. Whatever game was being played here, and he had no doubt that this was merely one small part of it, the opportunity to learn more and to fill those all-too-convenient gaps in his memory would present itself eventually. He was already learning more than he could have imagined possible a month ago. The rest would follow.

He was seated at the computer, reviewing a list of the firm's recent acquisitions, and savoring the knowledge that he was now able to replace the portions of his rare book collection which had been irreplaceable, when a young black woman in a smart-looking skirted suit, carrying a briefcase, abruptly appeared in front of his desk. Since the appearing was quite literal - one moment not there, and the next one seeming entirely corporeal - he had a fairly good idea where she was coming from, even before she spoke, and even without any literal whiffs of hellfire.

"May I help you?" he inquired, no longer in the least bit fazed by such abrupt appearances.

"Good morning, sir. Ms. Morgan asked me to bring you this file. She has been, ah, unavoidably detained elsewhere, and is unable to deliver it to you in person." She opened the briefcase, removing a fairly large file and extending it in his direction.

He looked quizzically at her. "Hard copy? Isn't this file on the system?" He gestured toward the computer.

"Not yet. Certain portions of it were considered too sensitive to be made available to everyone."

"Everyone, meaning Angel?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"And you are  who, exactly?"

"You may call me Mac, if you wish." At his steady, challenging look, she went on, with apparent reluctance: "I was an attorney here at the firm."

"When you were alive?"

"Yes, when I was alive. Anything further?"

"Just a bit more information, if you will." He took the file from her outstretched hand and placed it on the desk before him, still unopened.

"I'm not permitted to tell you anything more about Ms. Morgan. If you have questions about this file, though, I was the one who compiled most of the material. You may call upon me at any time for further explanation of anything in this file, if you wish."

"It's not about Ms. Morgan, or at least, not directly. Humor my curiosity for a moment, Mac. When did you die? Was it when the Beast attacked the firm, or earlier?"

"Not then. About two years earlier. That particular group is still in, ah, rehabilitation."

"Go on. You're referring to the zombies?"

"An accurate enough description," she conceded. "Yes. It wasn't anticipated that hundreds of employees would die and thus activate the perpetuity clauses in their contracts simultaneously. It caused a  mystical overload, if you will."

"Blew a fuse, more or less. Therefore, zombies."

"Exactly. That was not part of the plan. Whenever possible, the firm prefers to maintain all its valuable investments in good condition, with all useful abilities intact."

"Employees are resources not to be lightly wasted," he agreed gravely, allowing only the slightest tone of sarcasm to be heard. "So, you compiled this material, and Lilah wanted me to have it. Wait a few moments while I review it, in case I do have a question for you. I presume you don't have anything more urgent to do elsewhere." Wesley inclined his head slightly downward.

With a hint of a smile, she answered, "Not at the moment. As it happens, I have plenty of time."

"Have a seat then," and he waved toward the chair nearest to his desk. She sat down, and he opened the file. It only took a moment to identify the reason why Lilah had wanted this particular file called to his attention.

"The auction," he mused aloud, and glanced up sharply at Mac. "December 1999. You were the bidder from the firm?"

"Mine was the winning bid on Ms. Chase's eyes," she confirmed.

Looking at the photos in the file, Wesley found that the prospect of mortal harm to Cordelia, which had filled him with intense indignation four years earlier, was now something that he could discuss without a twinge. He did not care to linger for too long on what that said about him, and how much he had changed.

The thought of Cordelia always brought up unwelcome emotions of anger and betrayal. Despite the gaps in his recollection, one thing that he could remember clearly enough about Lilah was the fact that Cordelia had killed her.

He glanced up at Mac again. "Her eyes, yes, which you asked to have removed. I never understood the logic of that decision, even from your perspective."

"I was acting according to the settled policy of the firm. Unfortunately - for me, that is - you and Angel showed up."

"We considered it rather fortunate at the time."

"I'm sure you did. It was pointed out to me later that if I had taken our merchandise out with me intact, instead of waiting for the extraction, there might have been a more positive outcome for us."

"Why didn't you simply take her whole, then? I must admit, I've always wondered. Speaking of keeping valuable investments in good condition, it would seem fairly self-evident that the person who was actually experiencing the visions would have been far more useful to you than a disembodied pair of eyes."

"As you will see from the file, most of the extracted items have generally retained their monetary value to collectors, even across species lines. But more importantly, I was at a disadvantage. I had not attended the auction prepared to take a living purchase with me. The items that I planned to bid on were considerably less likely to struggle."

Wesley nodded slowly. "That does make sense, I suppose. Even if Cordelia had been drugged and unconscious, she would still be an awkward package to carry, since you hadn't brought the necessary team."

Mac's slight smile was more visible now. "We had requested extraction before, without incident, as you can see from the file. Most of the items you see there are still in our collection, including quite a few on which we were not the winning bidder at auction."

"I'm sure the firm had no trouble at all acquiring the items from the winning bidder," Wesley acknowledged dryly.

"After a discreet interval, yes. The details are in the file. It didn't prove much of a challenge."

Spreading the photos out on his desk, Wesley reflected that whatever was affecting his more recent memory did not seem to reach back that far. He could still recall clearly the moment when he had first learned that something was killing humans and demons alike and mutilating their corpses. No one else seemed interested in finding the culprit, and he had taken it on as his own personal quest, his crusade.

He could remember the moment when he began to redefine himself, not as a failed Watcher, but as a "rogue demon hunter." He could remember his own naïve excitement at the prospect.

He gazed at the picture of the young woman whose "healing hands" had been amputated at the wrist. She had been left in the street to bleed to death. Operatives of the firm that he now worked for had arranged it.

Leafing through the reports, he asked quietly: "I understand that Cordelia's situation was unexpected, but why wasn't this woman kept alive? As far as I can see, the hands became useless once they had been removed from her body. I've heard about your organ transplant program, but I see that her hands weren't used for that purpose. I would have expected that her healing talent would be far more valuable than an ordinary-looking pair of severed hands."

"Our client wanted only the hands, in the belief - however mistaken - that the healing power would be transferable. That ritual was a failure, but since we made no guarantees, that was not our responsibility."

"And yet, there was a wide range of practical uses for each of these talents, demon and human. Many of them were unique in the history of each respective species."

"Yes, that's true."

"Even on a purely economic basis, didn't the sheer waste ever disturb anyone? The firm is usually careful to preserve assets, as you've pointed out, and I know that the firm has the facilities to keep prisoners secure indefinitely. As far as I can tell, each of these abilities was extinguished forever when the body parts were harvested."

Mac smiled enigmatically. "Maybe the trail that led you here had a greater value than its parts. Take a look at the next section." She gestured toward the file, and Wesley turned over another folder and opened it.

There were a series of photos of himself, with extensive notes on his travels through twenty states from September through November, 1999. He had believed at the time that he was following a single demon, a deranged mass murderer. It would never have occurred to him then that he was actually on the trail of an organization, managed primarily by humans, which was collecting both demon and human organs from around the world for profit.

"So, the firm was aware of me, even then." He laughed softly. "I thought that no one could possibly have tracked me."

Wesley gazed at the photograph of a man on a motorcycle, and for a moment he could feel the wind on his face again, and could taste the crisp autumn air in a climate that was not Southern California. It had been only a few short months until his search for a murderous demon had led him inexorably to Los Angeles, where he had renewed his acquaintance with Angel and Cordelia.

His fingers resting lightly on the photo of Cordelia, he found himself wondering for the first time why, despite everything that had happened since then, he had never left Los Angeles again. What had held him here?

His thoughts slipped back, to the wandering stranger he had been, four years before.

***

Cordelia Chase was truly as lovely as ever, although she seemed more than a little ... distracted. Although so much in Wesley's life had changed over the past six months, his reaction to her presence had not changed at all. That chafing sensation, in the most uncomfortable of places, reminded him most powerfully of that fact.

He wrenched his thoughts away from their kiss, with considerable difficulty. "Cordelia. What did Angel mean by that last remark?"

"What?"

"Angel said that he had someone by his side, someone who is dead now. To whom was he referring?"

"Oh, that remark."

Cordelia's response was singularly unhelpful, which was entirely consistent with the peculiar manner in which she had behaved since their surprisingly passionate reunion. She did not meet his eyes, and her expression was not so much sad as it was vacant. When it became apparent that she had no intention of proceeding, Wesley prompted: "Indeed. Yes. That remark."

She glanced at him sharply then for a moment, and he thought that perhaps he had caught a glimpse of that charmingly vivacious spirit which he had found so attractive in Sunnydale; but then it seemed to drain from her face, leaving only that odd emptiness, and she turned away from him again. "Doyle. His name was Doyle."

"A friend of yours, as well, I take it?"

"Maybe I'll just stick to having enemies from now on. At least, when they try to pull the inside of your skull out through your nose, it's not a surprise. Do you have an extra pencil?"

Wesley glanced down at himself and his notable absence of pockets, then hastily looked away. "No, I'm afraid I don't. Why do you ask?"

"The pencil's not too sharp," she answered vaguely, and walked away. Wesley had an immediate uncharitable thought about that description, but he strove mightily to suppress it. Surely Cordelia must be suffering from some profound emotional trauma which would explain her curious behavior. No doubt it must be related to this "Doyle" person, whoever he might have been.

His erstwhile quarry had settled himself in the adjoining room, smirking nastily at Wesley as he put his feet up, and seeming entirely too comfortable in Angel's apartment, now that he was no longer being pursued. Wesley watched Cordelia pick up a piece of paper and her supposedly "not too sharp" pencil. She sat down, frowned in an abstracted fashion at what appeared to be a random scribble on the paper, reversed the pencil and began furiously erasing part of the drawing, ignoring both the ugly little demon and himself.

"It was a pleasure to see you again, Cordelia. So sorry about your ... friend," Wesley ventured. Her only response was "Mmm-hmmm."

She resumed drawing, and he realized that she was quite oblivious to his presence. He was rapidly reaching the conclusion that he might be more useful elsewhere.

"Well, then, off to locate the Kungai. I strongly doubt that Angel will have the good fortune to stumble upon him."

"Mmm-hmmm."

"So, what'cha waiting for?" the demon challenged. "Christmas?"

Wesley did not deign to reply.

"I shall endeavor to keep you and Angel informed of my progress," he said instead to Cordelia, although she was quite obviously not listening. "Perhaps I will send you a postcard from my next destination, after the Kungai has been flushed out of hiding. Who knows where in the world I shall next be needed?"

The demon waved brightly. "Hey, go for it, enjoy that whole flushing thing. Go get 'im!"

Cordelia did not even condescend to another "Mmm-hmmm" as Wesley made his exit.

His hotel room, if one could even call it that - "hotel" was a highly charitable description - was a short, though somewhat painful, ride away. He would have to stop there, at least for a few minutes, to refresh himself and make himself more comfortable before attempting to locate Angel and the Kungai. After all, he might be called upon to rescue Angel from some predicament or other, and if so, he might need all the speed, agility and grace that he could muster.

The heat of Los Angeles contributed significantly to his discomfort. It was quite difficult to believe that it was actually December, and he thought wistfully of the changing seasons, a concept entirely foreign to this area.

Like most serial killers, his prey had ranged over considerable distances during the past few months, presumably to avoid detection, and many of the fiend's past crimes had been committed in more temperate climates. Winter was nearly here in Los Angeles, and yet the sweltering heat remained, no longer being even slightly mitigated by the refreshing winds of travel.

His first stop, however, which was fortunately in the same direction as the hotel, was a bookshop that he had visited earlier in his travels. Angel's library included numerous volumes already well known to him, although he no longer possessed copies of his own, but he knew of at least one other potential source of information which could be extremely helpful in smoking out the Kungai if he could lay his hands on it. If such a tome were to be available anywhere in Los Angeles, it would undoubtedly be in the basement of The Ancient Eye.

When he arrived, and was promptly waved on down the stairs, he proceeded with as much alacrity as dignity would allow. It would not do to find the key to the demon's whereabouts, only to discover that it was long gone before Wesley could achieve its capture and destruction.

The basement was almost entirely free of customers, which was not unusual, given the highly specialized nature of this collection. Only one fair-haired young woman sat at a table, frowning fiercely at a large volume open before her. It took only a few minutes to discover that, of all the books lining the shelves, she had managed to appropriate the very one that Wesley needed.

Time was too short to wait. Wesley approached her and cleared his throat.

She ignored him.

He coughed politely. The woman glanced up briefly, then immediately lost interest and resumed perusing the book.

"Ah, excuse me."

"No problem. You're not bothering me."

"Well, actually, I must apologize for the intrusion, but I'm afraid that I need to consult the book you are reading, just for a moment. I won't be long."

"I'm almost done with it. What I'm looking for isn't here. Have you ever heard of the Scourge?"

"No, I can't say that I have. Sorry."

"You'd think that I'd have heard of them before," the woman mused aloud, pushing back from the table and shutting the book abruptly, with a snap that made Wesley wince at the possible damage. "What's the point of training all these years as an ethnodemonologist, when I can't even warn somebody in time for him not to go out and get himself killed?"

"Pardon me. What did you say?"

"Nothing important. You can have the book."

"Did you say 'ethnodemonologist'?"

"Yes, I did."

"Then I must ask you for another favor, if you would be so kind. Are you at all familiar with the Kungai?"

"Oh, sure," the woman said in a distracted manner. "Isn't everybody? What do you need to know?"

"I am tracking a Kungai who has run to ground in Koreatown. I have been following its trail for some time. Unfortunately, I have lost the element of surprise, so I am hoping to narrow down the scope of possible lairs where it might be hiding, given that it is already well aware of my relentless pursuit. I believe it to be wounded."

"Well, I've heard that there's one healer at the Lotus Spa who is sometimes willing to deal with Kungai and various other species that the other healers won't touch. That might be a possibility, if he's wounded. Wait a minute - what are you going to do with him when you catch up with him?"

"He's - it's - a vicious killer. I am well qualified to deal with the situation, I assure you. I plan to deal with it appropriately."

The woman sent Wesley a wary look. "What, you think that just because he's a Kungai, he ought to be put down like a dog? You won't get far with that attitude."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"You can't study demons properly until you realize that they're people too, you know. We humans think they're some kind of exotic creatures, but really, they're just another kind of people. They may have horns, and a few specially nasty habits, but basically they're a lot like us, with all our flaws and weaknesses. There are good ones and there are bad ones."

"Well, this is most assuredly one of the bad ones. My goal is not to study it, but to put an end to the menace that it presents. I am a rogue demon hunter, you see."

"A what? Maybe I really shouldn't be helping you."

"I will certainly check the Lotus Spa," Wesley said hastily. "Thank you very much for the information. I do appreciate your assistance."

"Yeah, well, I hope I won't regret giving it. Oh, if you're going over to the Lotus, you'd better change your clothes first. You'll roast in that leather."

"Indeed. Ah, thank you."

Wesley hurriedly escaped. There was much to do, a demon to be tracked, and a lesson to be taught, but with tact and diplomacy, of course, to a vampire who did not have sufficient respect for the knowledge and experience that Wesley had to offer.

Naturally, allowances had to be made for the effects of grief. After all, there was a void in Angel and Cordelia's lives where their dear friend had been, a void that was just waiting to be filled. He could afford to be tolerant of their emotional state.

He would prove himself - after a brief shower and a change of clothing. He would find a way to demonstrate his competence to Angel, and soon enough, Angel - and Cordelia - would be appropriately impressed, and they, unlike those fools at the Watchers' Council, would recognize his worth.

He would ease the burden of their grief over their friend. Soon they would look to him gratefully, and they would appreciate their good fortune that he had come into their lives at just the right moment, just when they needed him most.

They would accept him. They would. He would allow himself no doubt of that.

***

Wesley turned over another photograph from the file, seeing the image of himself in the basement of The Ancient Eye, talking to the woman who was identified in the file as Harry Doyle.

Even then, he had been under surveillance by Wolfram & Hart and its allies. He hadn't had the faintest idea.

Was that man the same one who sat here today, reviewing a file forwarded to him by his former lover, with a library now at his fingertips which would put The Ancient Eye to shame?

"None of it was coincidence, was it?" he said quietly to Mac. "I was being manipulated from the beginning. We all were."

"Yes, of course. The firm can't take all of the credit, though. It wasn't all us."

"No, I suppose not. There were always other players in the game."

He shook his head, wondering why Lilah had finally been permitted to let him know that he had been a pawn all along. Only now was he beginning to become a player - and yet, he still was not allowed to see clearly, even when it came to his own past. He was still standing at the periphery, trying to learn exactly where he fit in to the larger picture.

That time in his life, four years ago, had marked the beginning of a new apprenticeship. There had been no shortage of hard knocks in that education. Now, sitting behind this desk at Wolfram & Hart, he might have mastered that curriculum and graduated to the next level - but on to what?

Who was he now? What had he become?

When he next looked up, Mac was gone. He wasn't sure, but he thought he smelled something in the air this time, in the wake of her disappearance.

It reminded him of the scent of burning leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for NakedWesley in the Angel Book of Days Autumn Challenge. Prompt:Wesley and the leather pants he wore in 'Parting Gifts' ~ No character death
> 
> Author's notes ~ This is my belated apology to S1 Wesley. Sorry that I threw darts at you. It really wasn't your fault.


End file.
